


what you can't wash off the skin

by EasyPeasyPanic



Series: my darker fics [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Drabble, Enemies, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22165252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EasyPeasyPanic/pseuds/EasyPeasyPanic
Summary: In the aftermath of battle, Butsuma and Tajima share an intimate encounter based on the only emotion that have left to give to each other after so many years of fighting and death:Hate.
Relationships: Senju Butsuma/Uchiha Tajima
Series: my darker fics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657405
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	what you can't wash off the skin

* * *

They aren't boys anymore. They aren't even young men. They're old enough, experienced, fighting a battle that's happened dozens of times over the years. Everything's familiar, the cries of the dying and wounded, the squelch of flesh against blade, the earth trembling beneath his feet, the fighting where soot and smoke burned at his eyes, his own, his clanmates', maybe even--

No, no, his sons aren't here this time. That's different. That's good. He and Butsuma are the last two of their platoons with enough will and stamina to keep going, somehow pushed deep, deep into the forest, away from the others. Not far enough away from the smoke, and it blinded them both. The earth trembled and shook beneath him, turning to mud from the rain or from the jutsu of his rival. Their swords clashed louder than the thunder while the skies darkened around them. A spring storm.

Tajima stumbled, twisted out of the way of the sword aimed at his throat, but not enough to stop himself from falling. His ankles twisted, pulling him down further in the mud, sending him  _ clear  _ into Butsuma was a  _ clunk  _ of heavy armor. 

This happens differently. He's on top of Senju Butsuma, his enemy, the leader of his sons' murderers, his-- Tajima is close enough to see his mouth, the lines being to form where time has pulled them down. He smashes his own down on them, biting down as hard as he can until he tastes iron. Blood,  _ good  _ Butsuma deserves to bleed, he deserves to  _ ache  _ and hurt. 

Tajima gets shoved.

"You Uchiha Bastard!" Butsuma shouts, blood trickling down his chin. His lips steadily bleeding, the shape of Tajima's teeth dug into the tender flesh. His dark eyes are hard, unfeeling and  _ furious _ . But his cock is straining against his trousers, and Tajima traces the sight of it with his Sharingan, savoring it. He doesn't get much attention, hasn't since his wife died years ago, and he never much favored women that tried to garner his affections. He'd never want a woman after Kanna. He'd never wanted a woman at all. Never would. So he presses forward, hard, knocking them both back down. It isn't hard, there's so much thick, squishy  _ mud _ , and Butsuma's sword goes flying when he tackles him. 

"Stop  _ fighting now _ ." Tajima demands. "You're hard as a sword. Just let this happen."

"Fuck you." Butsuma snarls back. 

Though, he listens anyway, goes limp and glares up at him with such a burning hate that it fills him with a touch of glee and arousal. Good, he isn't one for soft emotions. He wants hate, as much of it as he can, because that's all he can feel for Butsuma. All he can feel for anyone except his clan and his son. He wants Butsuma to know that too, wants him to feel the hatred and anger burning through his veins like fire.

It isn't tender or sweet, it isn't loving. Tajima hauls Butsuma up by his armor with all the strength he has, swinging him onto his belly. He throws aside his own sword for good measure, snatches Butsuma's pouch and his own, throwing them too, though he knows it isn't necessary. They've been fighting for hours, exhausting every single weapon in their arsenal, there isn't much left but sealing scrolls and senbon. At least in his own pouch is like that. 

He doesn't offer anything more than  _ this _ . No foreplay, no gentleness,  _ nothing.  _ Tajima doesn't even let him take off his armor. He just shoves his pants down, tilts his head away from the rain, ignores the flash of lightning. Squints away from the water running down his face. 

Pulls his own trousers down, fighting back his own armor, pushing it up to his neck for more room.

Butsuma kicks him.  _ Hard _ . He tumbles back, winded, gasping for breath."Hurry up." He demands coldly, but Tajima  _ growls  _ back, tackling the man so he went face first into the dirt. He forces him up on his knees, his ass in the air and his gaudy red armor pulled down towards his head by gravity. 

"Got somewhere to be, Senju?" He taunts, narrowly avoiding the swing of Butsuma's elbow as it comes at his ribs backwards. Tajima grabs onto his short hair _ , hard.  _ Just a tug to warn him. He uses his other hand to shove two fingers (wet with the rain) into his enemy's ass. The loud grunt and choked gasp are like music to his ears. It hurts, Tajima imagines, so sudden and so quick, but he wants it to hurt. He wants everything about  _ this  _ to hurt. 

He stretches his fingers out far, curls them deep, drawing out every pained gasp and angry grunt from this bastard, this monster. Slides in a third finger too, just to be sure, just to make sure he's stretched wide open. 

Butsuma turns his head, as best he can from his position, "Hurry up." He demands again, but chokes on a breath when Tajima presses in all three fingers at once, and he can see a tremble in Butsuma's fists. "I don't need your  _ tender  _ care. Get it done, Uchiha." 

_ Demanding, demanding, always wanting more.  _ It was just like the Senju, pushing forward past the areas of the forest that belonged to them, invading his home, his son invade Tajima's son's life and mind, it was always too much. Too many lives lost, too many things happening, too much blood and death and--

He enters Butsuma in a swift movement, all the way inside, all in one. The man beneath him  _ moans _ in pain, eyes clenched shut and head hanging low, but Tajima isn't savoring that. He's savoring the tight, warm heat, almost painfully clenched against him. He chokes back his own grunt, clutching onto Butsuma's hips as tightly as he can. 

Wants to bruise him, wants to break him. Tajima moves and doesn't stop, thrusting in and out as fast as he can manage, chasing his own pleasure. By Holy Indra, he's  _ missed  _ this. He's missed the heat, the smell, the sweat and the grunts, every moment of having something intimate and passionate. And this was passion. It was passionate hate. It was every single thing opposite love that he could imagine. He wanted to bruise and break, digging his nails and fingers into the tan flesh beneath him, and make sure Butsuma ached later. Make sure Butsuma knew how much he despised him, how much he wished him misfortune and  _ death _ , every ounce of frustration being taken out on this bastard.

Butsuma lets out a hard, desperate groan, "Faster." And it still comes out as a demand, but Tajima obliges him. Snaps his hips hard and fast, makes sure it'll bruise and burn and ache. 

And by Holy fucking Indra, isn't Butsuma a sight? Split open by his cock, drenched in mud and grime, his ass in the air and his cock leaking against the soft dirt. His head thrown back like a common whore, a sight Tajima hasn't seen on anyone's face since he was a young man with a farmer boy. 

And if this were a different place, a different time, if his children hadn't been slaughtered like animals, perhaps it Tajima would say his enemy was handsome. He was, in all the ways that mattered, strong muscles and a handsome face, tall and broad. Perhaps in a different world, Tajima might have had a different passion, maybe love. He could have done this tenderly and slowly, drawing out pleasure and kissing a trail over Butsuma's naked chest, all the way down to the dark curls above his cock. 

But they are not there. This is not love. There is no nakedness, no gentleness, no compassion. This is anger and fighting and burning emotion. He wants to hurt and be hurt. He wants a way to relieve  _ any  _ of what he's feeling. Wants to forget the dead clansmen a few yards away in the clearing, wants to forget the sword he shoved into a young Senju woman's throat, wants to forget his dead sons, his son Madara's infatuation with Butsuma's boy. He wants to forget it. Any of it. Even for a moment. 

Thunder cracked above them, louder and louder. Almost blocking out all the sounds around them. All the ones that didn't matter, anyway. Butsuma was under him making all sorts of pitiful noises, choked gasps and quiet sobs, moans and groans. He pressed his ass back to meet each thrust, drawing them closer, slamming back against Tajima with as much  _ hate  _ as he muster too. It went like that for a while, for what felt like an eternity before Tajima felt his body tight, felt his entire body shake with pleasure, and he slammed in one last time, hard and fast. 

Let out a soft howl as he emptied himself into his worst enemy, shaking as he rode out his orgasm, clenching his face to keep the rain from his eyes. It was everything, blinding and wonderful and every emotion he was feeling spilling out, and he jerked his hips twice more. Once. Twice. 

Threw himself backwards, away from Butsuma when he became too sensitive, when it felt like too much, and the man grunted beneath him. Tajima yanked up his own pants, finished, having gotten what he wanted. 

His enemy kneels there a moment longer, panting heavily, knees shaking and fists clenched tight. There are red crescents where Tajima clawed at his hips, fresh marks on his skin that'll bruise heavily. His hole gapes, and Tajima feels pride swell when he seems his own seed dribble out. Out of his enemy. 

But his cock's still hard, leaking pearls of white down into the mud, and he's rocking his hips back and forth. Like he's trying to fuck the air. 

"I'll take care of it." Tajima says, moving closer. Not quite a mercy, not quite kindness or affection, but a debt unpaid. A few jerks won't last, won't have the same level of humilation and self hatred on Tajima that he imagines this has on Butsuma. Well, maybe that's wrong. Maybe he's just as angry at himself as he is at the damn Senju. 

Butsuma throws him a glare over his shoulder, standing up quickly before Tajima can grasp his thick cock, and he shoves his pants up. 

"I got what I wanted." Butsuma snaps. "I can handle it myself, bastard." And he snatches his pouch and sword, shooting Tajima the most scathing look he can manage. Tajima knows he has the same look on his face. "This won't be happening again." 

"No." Tajima agrees. "It won't."

But he's content with it. He's content watching Butsuma disappear, knowing his bruises will last days and that the hard, cold, cruel Senju leader will limp his way back to his compound. The rest of his devilish clan will think it a leg injury in battle, but Butsuma will  _ know _ . He'll know and Tajima will know, and it'll be the one act of hatred where the only thing killed and broken is their own dignities. 

Tajima picks up his sword, sated and tired, and turns back to the direction of his clan. 

The rain begins to slow down, turning into a heavy sprinkle, just enough to wash away their deeds. 

* * *


End file.
